


maeror meror

by serenitysea



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AUGH BBs breaking my heart, Angst, F/M, agents of heartbreak, mostly to make up for the GLARING lack of ward, skye grieves because it HURTS, the entire cast makes an appearance really, the five stages of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysea/pseuds/serenitysea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>maeror meror is the latin term for grief. </p><p>*</p><p>Nothing matters. </p><p>There is a gaping <i>hole</i> where your heart used to be. It is a horrifyingly empty space. In it was everything Ward had ever said to you or done in your behalf. It was every smile he sent your way. Every exasperated sigh. Every patient (and just a hint condescending) explanation given. Every secret glance. The unspoken language from his lips meeting yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maeror meror

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's not Bloodsport. But it did come out of nowhere.
> 
> You guys know how i have a love for a 2nd person POV... there's nothing else quite like it for this.

**5 stages of grief** : _denial || bargaining || anger || depression || acceptance._

* * *

In that cramped bathroom at the Providence base, you're in shock. Shock doesn't even begin to cover the wave of emotions you're feeling right now. In fact, calling it shock is like saying the Titanic hit an ice cube. The word does not even begin to encompass your true feelings.

It doesn't seem possible.

Not Ward.

Not — Mr. Secret Agent; so tightly-laced he probably _irons his underwear for the next day before going to bed each night_ ; always citing the rules until you feel like your ears are going to bleed — Ward.

Ward lives for Shield. He _breathes_ SOP like it is his religion. There are moments when you think that it was the only thing holding him together. (Days following the Beserker staff, come to mind.)

He can't possibly be a traitor. He can't _possibly_ have killed Eric. _He cannot be working for Garrett_.

You must have gotten the facts wrong.

* * *

It's the worst at 2 am.

That's when you lay awake in bed, thinking of what you could have done to change things.

What if you had pushed him to open up more after your recovery? Ward was at his softest then. He would have told you anything. Maybe then he would have admitted to working with Garrett. Maybe there could have been a way to stop him.

And if his feelings are real the way he says they are — shouldn't you have just confronted him right away at the Providence base? Instead of playing the game, and making him think you were along for the ride — shouldn't you have just pulled him aside and leveled with him?

  
  
(In your mind the conversation goes something like this:

"Ward." You patiently wait until the way he looks at you is not the way he scans for a potential threat. You see his eyes soften with that look he reserves only for you — and go in for the kill. "I know the truth."

Here is where you can't imagine beyond — but Ward wouldn't kill you or hurt you. There's a very real chance you would have been able to save him. To plead with him to get in touch with Coulson, to make sense of the entire cluster of a situation, to _turn things around_.

That it didn't _have_ to be that way just because it had _always_ been that way for him so far. That you were in this together. That he _wasn't alone_.)  


Those are the nights you completely abandon the idea of sleep because there is no way in hell you'll be able to sleep with all these variables and _what if's_ floating around in your head.

* * *

You're not May.

You can't store up your anger to refine it and channel at the latest goons of the week, or Hydra factions that need taking down.

It doesn't work that way for you.

Instead it works something like this:

You wake up terrifyingly early every day. You throw yourself into Tai Chi with May because it is teaching you discipline. It makes you focus. When you are done with May, you jump into basic training with Trip. He doesn't ask questions, _ever_ — and he is careful to never touch you. If there is something wrong with your form, he will address it verbally and help you to correct your stance from a distance.

There is a dark rage building and uncurling inside you and it comes out when you loosen the chokehold on your control for even a second.

It comes out when you spend another punishing 45 minutes with the punching bag after a morning of training with two specialists. When you spill your water and fling the glass at the far wall, relishing the shards flying everywhere and the superficial cuts on your face and hands. When you scream with frustration because the government has upped their security and it takes longer than a minute to hack into their mainframe.

When the internet goes down for a day due to the Playground's structural upgrades, you nearly lose your shit.

Everyone, even Coulson, stays away from you.

You rage against anything, _everything_.

(You curse Ward every name in the book for not being here to teach you how to deal with this. For _never_ having taught you how to deal with this.)

* * *

There are days when you refuse to come out of your room.

You don't answer your comm and disable your phone. No one knows networking better than you — so if you don't want to be reached — you _aren't_.

It doesn't matter that Jemma needs support because she's in overload dealing with Fitz's recovery and rehab. Or that Trip has run out of people to run training ops with. Or that May is skulking about, looking for someone to punch. It doesn't even matter that something is up (you _know_ it's up even if he swears everything is fine — people don't have those circles under their eyes unless they're hiding something) with Coulson.

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

There is a gaping _hole_ where your heart used to be. It is a horrifyingly empty space. In it was every single thing Ward had ever said to you or done in your behalf. It was every smile he sent your way. Every exasperated sigh. Every patient (and just a hint condescending) explanation given. Every secret glance. The unspoken language from his lips meeting yours.

It's the first gun he taught you to disarm. The idiots who nearly shot you when you thought you could make Quinn's party your personal playground in a stupid pink dress. The twin feelings of a heady relief and chilling terror after he'd shot Nash to save your life. The way he grabbed your hand and laced your fingers with his and the utter comfort in which he'd done so.

You can't surface from this. It's enough to sink you under.

He was your best friend. The one who knew whens something was up, who had been through hell with you, who knew how to _read you back to yourself_ when you no longer knew which end was up. The constant in your life when everything went straight to hell.

And that he's no longer in your life — and _why_ — is killing you.

It is stealing the breath from your lungs and the life from your heart. There is no sparkle in your eyes anymore. Ward took it all with him.

You might never get it back.

* * *

At the end of the day, it's really quite simple:

You love him.

_Damn it._

**Author's Note:**

> i love it when you guys find me on tumblr (mostly because i have no idea what i'm doing on there) so if you get bored, feel free! i'm b-isforbombshell.


End file.
